


Venite adoremus

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, 18th Century, ACTUALLY..........., Academia, Alternate Universe - 18th century, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Scientists, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Astronomy, British Politics, Celebrations, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Chronic Illness, Church of England, Dancing and Singing, Dark Academia, Death penalty, Drama & Romance, Drinking, Drunken Flirting, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fist Fights, Gay Bar, Gay Panic, Georgian Christmas, Georgian Period, Getting Together, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Dress, Historical References, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, LET's BE REAL THO here are the tags you're here for:, M/M, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Murder, Near Death Experiences, Oblivious Simon Snow, Or Is It?, POV First Person, POV Simon Snow, Past Character Death, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Politics, Queer History, Religion, Rivalry, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Suspicions, Vampires, a terrifying amount of historical accuracy frankly, and i will probably add more tags later because i am a mad man, and uhhhhh, and yet... not Dark Academia... sadly, but like before it was cool, enlightenment, god my tags are always a fucking nightmare aren't they?, i like that this makes it seem that I'm suggesting 'academia' is a dark thing to tag for, i swear it's not like exploitatively angsty, if you see something inaccurate no you didn't, mentions of suicidal ideation, nah not really, okay but wait just to be safe here are some other dark things that are mentioned:, or are there?, or at least i hope not, the relationship is friendship tho don't get too excited, this all sounds so fucking dark I'M SORRY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　December 1726　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧Duke Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch and Mr Simon Snow Llewellyn don't exactly get along. They met at Eton, aged thirteen, and they've been cursed by each other's presence ever since. It's as though there's a force drawing them in. A heavenly force, perhaps, like the celestial bodies they are both so keenly studying now at Oxford.But their paths do not circle elegantly like the heliocentric model; rather, they swoop and double-back and narrowly-miss each other again and again, a tangled journey that appears to only be coiling tighter.Towards what?They're getting too old for this. Sniping and clawing at each other while on campus is one thing—spending time amongst respectable society in London for Christmas is another. Simon's position is too precarious, given his lack of title and his father's political enemies; Baz's position is too large not to be scrutinized, putting his secrets—and life—at risk.Either they're going to spend this Christmas making utter fools of themselves and collide in a blaze of immaturity...Or they're going to have to learn how to get along.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 11
Kudos: 52
Collections: Carry On Through The Ages





	Venite adoremus

**Author's Note:**

> This is my disastrously late entry for the Carry on Through the Ages event.  
> As I should have expected, my initial concept of "I'll just write a short, simple Christmas fic set in 1720s London and do the minimum amount of research" led me down a dark and winding path. Now, over 100 hours of research later (quite literally), I have chapter 1 of a fic.  
>  ~~(Did I _need_ to do even quarter of that research for this? No. But I wasn't about to let that stop me.)~~  
> Unlike all of my other works, I'm actually writing this one as I go... I tried to make it my NaNoWriMo project, but, uh, that really didn't work. So, please bear with me! It is absolutely my intent to update regularly-ish throughout the month—I'm determined to have this done by Christmas!  
> There are not enough words in the world to express my gratitude to [AliceLiddle](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/AliceLiddle) and [Fool of a Book Wyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85) for their endless support, especially while I went absolutely mental with all my research. And a big big thanks to my husband who listened to me scream about this for ages and watched an ungodly number of documentaries with me. And also thanks to the three of them for betaing this for me!!! And of course, thanks to the lovely [CSCB/tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) who beta'd for me, as well, and for all the cheerleading. 🖤 I love you guys~

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 15 December 1726 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

_Bleeding bloody hell._

I do my best to stave off the vulgar words ready to tumble free as I openly gawk at the man standing before me, both of us poised to advance upon the same residence. The croaks of my befuddlement at his presence leak out like dying crickets as I struggle to find a single appropriate thing to say.

“ _What_ are you doing here?” I ultimately blurt. While it’s a good deal better than greeting him with profanity, this is not an auspicious start for the evening.

Basilton arches one of his cruel eyebrows at me, and the back of my neck grows hot despite the winter chill. One might imagine that after seven years of having the misfortune of his acquaintance, I might be inured to the gesture. Heaven knows I’m as familiar with the catalog of his expressions of distaste as I am with the constellations which dot the night sky.

“Good evening, Mr Llewellyn,” he says with polite enunciation, and I know it to be spiteful; he rarely has the decency to call me anything other than my middle name, ‘Snow’.

Shame burns high in my cheeks as my namesake leisurely collects around us. I clear my throat and try to greet him anew: “Good evening, Your Grace.” I tip my head, disturbing the snow gathering on my hat. “I’m, ah, surprised to see you here.”

“Yes, I inferred that much.”

Duke Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is an infuriating specimen of a man, and it’s rare I ever mind saying so. As a matter of course, Basilton and I have spent a not-insignificant portion of our lives reminding anyone who will listen exactly how much we detest one another. Penny has all but barred me from mentioning Basilton in my letters. Back when he and I were only squabbling boys at Eton, our rivalry still in its infancy, Penny wrote:

 _‘As to the matters of the Marquess,’_ —for that was his title at the time—‘ _I should hope you take only the appropriate amount of offence when I profess to you that, regardless of all my deep sisterly affections for you, I cannot possibly bear to read another correspondence so heavily burdened with details about him. Save for in the circumstances of utmost importance, of which I can predict no such circumstances at all, I implore you to keep your mentions of him to no more than one-tenth the sum of words gracing the rest of your letter. Ideally, should you care enough for me to do the favour, you will also confine these words to a postscript. If you cannot comply, I am afraid you will leave me no choice but to burn all of your letters, for I can no longer bear the headaches they cause me.’_

I begged Penny not to make me do such maths in my letter writing, which she was all too pleased to remind me of a mere year later when I became irretrievably invested in mapping the movements of the heavenly bodies. Given that this chosen course of study then only brought me further into Basilton’s very own path, for he too sought out such knowledge, my letters were well-calculated from then on. I had no disillusions that my dear childhood friend Penelope Bunce wouldn’t be good on her word.

In turn, I have become very skilled in slipping references to him in my letters in ways Penny might not berate me for. Then, I pour my unfiltered thoughts out into a diary before bed so that I have a private account of Basilton’s many misgivings. It’s important I keep a record—know thy enemy, and all that.

Faced with him right now, numerous possible complaints tumble about in my mind, but this is neither the time nor the place for such musings. Which brings me back to my initial query: “What brings you to London, Duke?” I ask with what little formality I can muster. Last I saw him, we were parting ways at Oxford when Michaelmas term came to a close. I assumed he’d be travelling to his estate for the holidays, and that I would be bestowed the Christmas miracle of not having to be reminded of him for a magnificent four weeks.

Basilton’s gaze slides away from me, which feels like both an insult and a relief. “Have you been drinking already? Surely even an addled mind could deduce why someone might be approaching another’s front gate.” Basilton gestures grandly with his walking cane, deploying a small tap to the iron structure as punctuation. “Open this for me, won’t you?”

“B-but—” I sputter. “You— This is the Teague residence!”

“How fortunate for me, seeing as I am a guest of their gathering this evening,” Basilton replies tersely, tapping the gate again.

“ _You_ were invited?” I grip the gate, though it is more for support than to submit to his demands. The sounds of music and laughter drifting out from the house sounded so pleasant when I initially turned onto the street, but now it hangs in the air like a mockery.

Basilton pulls in a long, slow breath through his nose; I tense in preparation for the imminent scathing words. “While I’ve never had good reason to think you a very smart man, Snow, I did at least expect you to maintain a certain level of basic mental capacity. Has this past Term so thoroughly shaken you that your brains have dribbled out your ears?”

I suppose it was a rather foolish question. It’s not as if he’s the smell-feast between us, slipping into parties uninvited in search of food and connections, two types of nourishment we are all so enslaved to. And while I greatly enjoy using my mouth for the former, the arse kissing is where my abilities cease. It’s common knowledge by all those who know me that my command of my tongue is not ideal. I inherited not even half the persuasive oratory skills of my father.

My tongue feels fat and traitorous in my mouth as I continue my attempts to wrangle it. “I-I’m having a hard time fathoming what connection you could possibly have with Mr Teague’s household.”

“The same as you, surely.”

“ _Trixie_?” My loudness causes Basilton to flinch. It’s a reaction I don’t elicit from him often, but one I like very much. Emboldened, I wedge myself between him and the gate. “You’re lying!”

All pretence of niceties has been stripped from him now. Baz’s face twists up into the wicked sneer I’ve come to know well over the years. “Why in God’s name would I be lying, you dundering blockhead?” His ire drowns out the sounds of the party. The party which is happening without me. A party I was very much looking forward to!

“Because she is my friend, and you don’t know her!” I shout back.

Baz scoffs. “Perhaps you don’t know her all that well, then.”

Damn him!

Trixie Teague has been an acquaintance of mine since I was a young boy. She, Penelope, and I were neighbours up in Lancashire. Penny and I were always thick as two thieves, and while Trixie didn’t join us often, she was welcome. (On my behalf, at least; Penny, not as much.) We didn’t keep in touch once I came south for my studies, so it was a very pleasant surprise to have spotted her in London by chance one day. Her family relocated here two years ago, and I’ve enjoyed having her familiar face around whenever I’m in the city. She knows me. From before all of it—the posh schools, the politician father, the powdered wigs …

Zounds, I’m not even wearing a wig! My messy curls are loose and somewhat overgrown. This was supposed to be a relaxed, joyous evening of drinking and laughter to ring in the Christmas season! Before I must attend all those _important_ parties riddled with posturing and courting and intricate table settings.

And now, here is the villainous Duke to show me up and make a fool of me.

Like he always does!

I’m desperately grasping for some string of words that could possibly express to Baz how fervently I want him to _fucking get gone_ already, but my blustering is interrupted by the loud clearing of a throat from up the street. We both whip our heads towards the sound.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” a young man says, looking between myself and Baz with a wide smile bunching up his ruddy cheeks. “Are you here for Miss Teague’s party as well?”

With unnerving swiftness, Basilton corrects his posture and replaces his sneer with the usual stoic countenance he presents to everyone but me. “Good evening,” he greets. “Yes, Mr Llewellyn here was just about to open the gate for us.”

Cripes, I’m left with no choice, am I? I push open the gate and grind my teeth as Basilton brushes past me. I force myself to make pleasantries with the young man ( _“Gareth Jones,”_ he informs me) as we trail the Duke inside. By the time Gareth and I have shed ourselves of our hats, gloves, and cloaks, Basilton has already passed through the busy parlour to greet Trixie. And, to my misfortune, I have to watch him press a kiss to the back of her hand while Gareth says, “I’m friends with Miss Teague’s brother, though I wouldn’t mind befriending her as well,” which he follows up with a peculiar wiggle of his hips, giving me a pointed look and setting me even further ill at ease.

Barely taking the time to spare a few smiles and greetings to the other guests, I weave my way through the noisy lot to save Trixie from Basilton. She’s far too friendly of a girl to have to suffer his cold gaze and poisonous tongue. I don’t know what he did to trick her into thinking he would make a fine addition to the party—or to her life at all, truly!—but I must warn her of his villainy before it’s too late.

It’s just as I approach when Trixie begins gleefully tapping a hairpin against her glass to garner the boisterous room’s attention. “May I present,” she announces at full volume, her words undulating with barely suppressed glee, “His Grace the Duke of Southampton!”

I find myself gawking at Basilton in horror for the second time this evening as I await his response to Trixie’s levity. My jaw drops further as I watch the subtle twitch of his pursed lips, as if he’s resisting a smile…! Rather than this being a comfort, I worry for my friend’s fate all the more.

Basilton clears his throat and sweeps his gaze over the guests who are bursting with the same blithe hilarity as their hostess. “I look forward to making all of your acquaintances,” he says, and several revellers fall into giggles as if this is the most wonderful joke they’ve ever heard.

“Drink, you must drink!” Trixie decrees as she stuffs her pin back into the wild coiffure atop her head, already adorned with two other hairpins of differing designs. There’s some variety of feather involved in the presentation, as well. I’ve never been able to tell if Trixie is entirely ignorant of how queerly she dresses or if she is somehow always on the front line of the latest fashions coming from Paris. (And, frankly, I don’t really care.)

Another lady, Miss Keris Philips, whom I know to be very close friends with Trixie, holds out a glass for him. “Yes, come on, Duke, you have some catching up to do,” she delights.

Basilton shakes his head with amusement, the plait of his dark wig swaying. “I shouldn’t have too much,” he protests yet reaches for the glass just the same.

My jaw is near to dragging on the floor by this point. I snap myself out of it before Basilton can catch sight and toss his usual comments my way. ( _“How am I not to profess you a dullard when you breathe through your mouth like the troglodytic product of ill-breeding that you are?”_ ) With my wits as gathered as I might ever get them tonight, I square my shoulders and approach my friends.

“Good evening, Miss Teague.”

Her whole face lights up. “Simon! You made it!” She plants a kiss on my cheek. “Happy Christmas!”

“To you as well. And you, Miss Philips.”

Keris gives me a wobbly curtsey before pressing a glass of wine into my hands. “Have you met Duke Southampton?”

“Y-yes,” I manage. Both of the ladies are looking at me with such earnest good-humour, so I do my best not to frown too openly. “We’ve … known each other for some years now.”

“How wonderful! Then you know what fun he is when he drinks!” Trixie titters, flapping her hands at Basilton to hurry him along in the process.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

The Duke emits a soft huff through his nose as he gets to drinking. If he were a few glasses in, that sound would have come out as a derisive snort. He acts all buttoned-up usually, but I know what he’s truly like; ‘fun’ is certainly not one of the words I would use to describe him.

“Oh, then you don’t yet know him well enough,” Trixie says.

“I know him,” I declare, indignation readily flooding my cheeks. “I know him better than anyone else does.”

“You flatter yourself,” Basilton deadpans before turning to the ladies. “You’ll have to forgive Mr Llewellyn for his discomfiture; he does not hold me in very high regard.”

“Impossible!” Trixie coos.

“Mr Llewellyn, how could you squander your self-professed _many years_ in the Duke’s acquaintance by ever surmising him to be ill of character?” Keris asks, all playful melodrama.

I grit my teeth. “I assure you, Miss Philips, he has supplied ample reasons for me to interpret his character in such a light.”

“Duke, what did you do!” Trixie laughs and bats at his shoulder. I’m shocked when his only response is the quirk of another almost-smile as he sips his wine. “You must tell us!”

“Nothing, that I can recall,” he dares to say. “I hate to speak so rudely of one of your guests, Miss Teague, but I fear our shared acquaintance here may be merely a classist bigot.”

“ _What?_ ” I squawk as the ladies fall about themselves in laughter.

“But you can hardly blame him,” the Duke continues with his honeyed lies, “for he comes by it honestly; his father created an intolerant son in his image, and quite successfully so, I don’t mind saying.”

Trixie snickers. “Mr Davy Llewellyn is blessed with a very particular vision, is he not?”

“ _Sir_ Davy Llewellyn,” Keris corrects.

Trixie blinks at me with her wide, sea-blue eyes. “Your father was knighted? Oh, Simon, you don’t tell me anything!”

 _‘I told you twelve years ago when it happened,’_ is what I want to say, though it’s hardly worth reminding Trixie of it; she is not the type to apply effort into recalling conversations, for she would much rather enjoy being regaled again and again. Instead, I urge direction back to the more pressing topic: “I speak not for my father; my views are mine alone. Our years attending school together have proved to me with no uncertainty that the Duke is a contemptuous fellow, a truth surely made more prevalent due to his breeding, yes, though no less a natural part of him.”

The ladies appear horrified at my humourless candour, while Basilton’s expression is something unreadable. I might have labelled the flash in his icy grey eyes and the pinch of his brow as wounded in any other man, though I think him incapable of it. If he possesses enough humanity to feel the sting of reproach in general I do not know, but I can imagine no situation in which words uttered from my mouth would cause him anything but anger or malicious amusement. He has always held the lowest regard for me from the first day we met as thirteen-year-old boys at Eton. Now, myself at twenty and Basilton not yet one and twenty, I have more than resigned myself to the fact that he will never consider me as anything but muck beneath his shoe. Neither my attempts at gentlemanly behaviour nor my academic achievements could outshine my status as a lowly commoner in his eyes, ironically made all the worse by my father’s upward momentum in the political sphere. As members to rival parties, the more my father achieves, the worse Basilton thinks of me.

Classist bigot warped by the perceptions of my father, indeed!

“You speak too plainly, sir,” Basilton says, voice cold and lip curled. “You’ve upset our hostess.”

I cease my scowling at him and regard Trixie; she’s blinking rapidly and her bottom lip is pushed up and quivering, which I know to be a sign of her impending tears. I am reddened with building shame.

“M-my apologies, Miss Teague. I didn’t mean to cause you distress—”

Keris interrupts me in a firm voice as she steps between myself and my childhood friend. “To think that blatantly insulting Trixie’s choice of guest would not be distressing is rather ill-conceived, is it not?”

“I— Y-yes, I see what you mean, and I am sorry for my thoughtlessness, b-but I merely wanted to warn you ladies of the Duke’s true nature—”

“We know him well, thank you,” Keris says with the opposite of gratitude in her tone. “Perhaps you should go join the boys in a game of cards.”

As incompetent with social etiquette as I may sometimes be, I recognize when I’ve been dismissed. I offer a bow and repenting glance to Trixie, then depart, sure to ignore Basilton. It’s what I planned to do for the entirety of the winter holidays, after all—I just didn’t expect to have to ignore him while in the same town as him. And certainly not while under the same roof!

But … I can do it.

Yes.

So long as the Duke doesn’t do anything nefarious, of course. As well as Trixie and Keris may think they know him, I am increasingly convinced otherwise. Trixie is too carefree to string two sensible words together even when sober, and Basilton is an absolute wretch when he’s drunk; they will come to know each other properly in due time, and I will be at her side the instant he upsets her. Escorting the Duke from the property would give me great pleasure, not least of all because it would make up for my upsetting her….

I join three lads in a game of cards on the other side of the parlour, mindful enough to pick a seat that allows me to keep a subtle watch on the ladies as they resume fawning over Basilton.

The cards are dealt, and I put much effort into engaging my mind with the game and the company around me, though I am not as successful as I would hope. It’s a simple game of ruff and honours, which I play regularly at Oxford, and yet I am continuously making simple mistakes. I’m only just barely in acquaintance with some of these guests—like Gareth Jones, who seems to fancy himself an expert in cards—and so my every blunder makes my self-consciousness grow, which, as is often my curse, leads me to even more blunders in turn.

They’re good men at least, I will grant them that. Assigned my partner in the game, Gareth is generous enough to not show outward distress by my ill playing. Loose on wine and holiday cheer, they give me a ribbing in a genial enough manner, which I would usually laugh about freely in normal circumstances—with far more drink in my own belly as well. Yet tonight there is such discomfort behind my ribs.

I consider getting more wine to soothe my nerves, but I am loath to drink in Basilton’s presence. He’s always so sharp-tongued, and I’m fated to become all the more easily flustered by him with my every sip. Such a thing invariably leads to yelling, which then leads to one of us throwing a punch.

Well … it is admittedly always me who throws the first punch … but it can’t be helped once he’s pushed me to the brink!

Regardless of any potential violence, I still shouldn’t dull myself around such a villain when I might need to come to Trixie’s rescue.

One of the other card-players—Rhys Bowen, whom I am loosely acquainted with—is speaking in Welsh to Gareth. I hardly recognize the language at first, for my mind is clouded with speculations regarding Basilton’s motives, and I’m further jumbled by the other sounds of the lively party going on around us. Rhys says something else and looks at me expectantly, and I am embarrassed to realize I cannot even tell if he was speaking Welsh or English that time. Despite having chatted on a mere handful of occasions, Rhys was quick to learn my Welsh is shabby at best, yet he urges me to use it. ( _“Meistr pob gwaith yw ymarfer,”_ he oft reminds me.) A grasp on my Welsh ancestry was never of much importance to my father, despite his own pride over his Denbighshire roots.

“Sorry; _fedret ti ddeud_ —? What did you—?”

My awkwardness is cut off by a high-pitched squeal that plunges into my heart like a dagger. My body jolts with readiness, and I nearly leap from my chair, but the fight drains away at once when I see that the source of the sound—Trixie, of course—is in no danger at all. She is hanging onto Basilton’s sleeve, liberally laughing like a small child who has yet to ever feel the sting of reprimand. Keris must be relaying a truly humorous tale, for even Basilton looks amused, hardly ruffled at all by Trixie nearly splashing her drink on him through all her noisy mirth.

I sag in my seat and attempt to refocus on the conversation around me. Basilton cannot possibly be so diabolic as to attack Trixie, or any of the guests, with a dozen others present—even if she does succeed in spilling wine on his justaucorps.

“I said,” Rhys begins, mercifully in English, “that it’s rather strange to see someone like him here, isn’t it?”

I am terribly relieved by Rhys being of sound mind, I can hardly contain my excitement. “Yes, exactly! Why would a duke be in such society? It’s truly bizarre.”

“Didn’t you two come together?” Gareth asks.

“C-certainly not.”

“But you seemed so close. The way you were at the gate…” Gareth slides his eyes to Rhys, and the two share the sort of silent exchange one might witness between a father and mother as they try to draw the truth out of a cunning child. Or, in this case, a father and … uncle, perhaps? Either way, there is something about it that gets my back up.

“I know him,” I admit bitterly, “but we are very far from close.”

“All the more peculiar then,” Rhys decides.

Rhys is right; Basilton is thoroughly out of place here amongst the serviceable furniture and shelves cluttered with decorations instead of books. Trixie’s eccentricity is something she has in common with her mother, and as a product of this, their home is generously adorned with figurines and baubles of no use other than to dizzy the observer. I don’t need to have ever visited Pitch manor to know Basilton’s preference is to let the lines and curves of fine architecture speak for themselves; even as a boy, he treated the chapel at Eton with a reverence that had nothing to do with God.

I shouldn’t attempt to understand Trixie’s reasoning for inviting any of these guests; other than a few obvious connections, this seems like a varied lot, as though Trixie collects friends in the same flighty manner she collects all her little trinkets. The true mystery is why Basilton accepted her invitation.

I don’t know how he can stand any of this. I don’t know why he allows the ladies their indiscretions, or why he places any value on their acquaintance. It’s not as though the Teagues have any political ties; they are a simple middling family, the exact sort Basilton’s lot is quick to squash under their red heels lest the _status quo_ be threatened. To witness a man of his upbringing in this modest terrace home boggles the mind.

I survey him while I wait for my new hand of cards. (I nary claimed two points in the first game, which sours my disposition all the more.) It appears the Duke had the forbearance not to wear all his best finery this evening. While he would never debase himself insomuch as to wear anything less than silks, his waistcoat is only of moderate design, and his other accoutrements are understated as well. He looks less formal than he might for dinner at the University. Though, I’m unsure if such restraint comes from polite consideration or subtle insult.

No; knowing Basilton, it likely comes from a place of deceit.

I can think of no other reason. Somehow, this is a plot, of that I am certain. So, if not a political one, then …

“Llewellyn?”

I am pulled from my macabre musings, staring slack-jawed at Gareth across the small table we’ve commandeered for our— Oh, our _game_. “Y-yes? Sorry, is it my turn?”

The lads laugh good-naturedly, bless them. I finish my turn and offer to get a refill for their drinks, a task which they are more than pleased to permit. I’ll have only a small glass more myself, seeing as my mind is already so wont to wander. Supper will help; I can only hope it will be served soon. Not that I didn’t eat plenty at dinner earlier with the Wellbeloves. When a man is served such a fine meal, it would be an insult not to indulge. The Teagues may not be graced with the same lifestyle the Wellbeloves are, but I’m confident supper will manage to be quite satisfying even so.

With my thoughts occupied from sipping wine, anticipating supper, and navigating a far more successful round of cards, I’m pleasantly devoid of any thoughts of Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. There is revelry as thick in the air as the delicious scent of roasting meat wafting up from the kitchens, and someone is playing a fiddle with the sort of unabashed carelessness only found amongst those who are loosening their grip on sobriety. I can only imagine the raucous stamping and clapping that will build up as the evening goes on.

It’s rather perfect, the party manifesting exactly as I had hoped.

Then, Trixie’s brother comes to join our game, and I’m reminded that I haven’t heard her peals of laughter for some time now …

I offer up my seat for Mr Teague and weave my way through the other guests, inwardly cursing my ignorance; how could I let it escape my notice that the girls and the Duke disappeared from my periphery at some point? I pray it has not been for long.

To my relief, I spot Keris chatting with two other ladies. I disturb their small circle, giving a quick bow of apology as I breathlessly ask Keris where Trixie might have gone off to. The hairs on the back of my neck raise when she confirms my fear: “I believe she’s taking a turn in the garden with Duke Southampton.” I excuse myself from the ladies more hurriedly than I joined them, rushing for the back exit.

The garden is lit with the few meagre shafts of moonlight that manage to escape the clouds, along with the subtle diffusion of candlelight through the house’s windows. I hesitate to move forwards while my eyes fail to adjust with the swiftness the moment requires. My ears pick up the faintest of whisperings as I dash my gaze about in search of the source. The garden is narrow with modest depth, and I finally begin to make out the shadowy outlines of topiary and—

 _There—_ two figures huddled close, their silhouettes bleeding into one.

“Unhand her, Basilton!”

Trixie emits a startled squeak; Basilton whips his head towards my intrusion and glares at me down his crooked nose. (I did that, some years ago; I rather feel like doing it again at the moment.)

“My hands were not on the lady, I assure you,” he says.

Trixie gapes at me, blinking her big eyes. “What has possessed you so, Simon? You’ve not been yourself this evening.”

I stand there in the Teague’s small garden—which is stuffed full of this and that like the rest of their home, potted plants and tiny statuary littering my path of attack—and I consider my options. “I, well, the Duke is— Y-you two should not be alone together!”

“There is nothing untoward happening between myself and the Duke,” Trixie sputters. “Of that you can be certain.”

I squeeze my fists and keep my glare locked on Baz. “I’m not worried about that,” I spit.

Truly, I can imagine him doing any number of fiendish things, but taking some sort of … intimate advantage of a lady is not one of them, I confess, especially not one who has been drinking. As much as it pains me to give him any sort of credit, I have only ever witnessed him eschewing an inebriated woman’s attention, and in the most gentlemanly manner no less. A threat to Trixie’s virtue is not my concern.

“I don’t mean to insult you, dear Trixie, but this man should not be trusted, for he is, ah, you see—”

Basilton huffs through his nose, and thanks to the sufficient number of drinks in him by now, it comes out like the snort I typically expect. “Go ahead, Snow, say it.”

“W-well, Trixie, he, I have reason to, that is—”

“ _Say_ it, Snow,” he growls. “ _What._ Am I?”

 _“Vampir!”_ I shout.

“What?” Trixie utters, voice high and thin with confusion. She is nearly drowned out by the bark of laughter Basilton emits.

“Why are you laughing?” I demand as I stomp my way to them along the cluttered path.

The Duke doesn’t answer; he holds a hand over his face and keeps on with his laughter, only aiding in puzzling Trixie further. I wish I could condemn the show of mirth, but rather than it making him sound as monstrously unscrupulous as I would like, instead he sounds … Well. I don’t know exactly, for I can’t pinpoint the edge in Basilton’s voice as anything other than … pained.

But that cannot be right.

Trixie backs away from my threatening approach and Basilton’s lunacy. “What in God’s name is a _vampir_?” she demands.

Basilton’s display of humour—for lack of a better term—dies out as he casts a cruel smile in my direction. “Miss Teague, I’m afraid our joint acquaintance here is a prime example of the type of man whose mind is not strong enough to subsume the _appropriate_ lessons from his education. He dares to call himself a scientist, yet he spends his free time reading ghost stories that he claims have credence purely because they’ve been translated into a language he loosely comprehends.”

“They are not mere ghost stories,” I am quick to assure Trixie.

“Heretical folklore,” he spits.

“Pope Innocent III officially recognized the undead as—”

Baz laughs again, the sound sharper than a blade. “Oh, are you a _Catholic_ now? Does your father know?”

“John Calvin recognized them, as well! And Martin Luther!”

There is no longer any dark humour left in Baz as his fury with me simmers under his pale skin. “Stop bothering Miss Teague with your horrific nonsense, Snow!”

“She is my friend,” I snap. “I am here to protect her.”

Trixie exhales mightily and shoves her hands on her hips. “Protect me from _what_? I don’t have the first clue as to what you’re accusing the Duke of!”

I eagerly step between Basilton and Trixie, shielding her from him as I explain my findings, my blue eyes locked to hers. “You must not trust him. He is a man shrouded in secrecy. I have more than sufficient reason to believe that Duke Southampton is a _vampir—_ a _vrykolakas—_ a spectre of sorts, who drinks the blood of his victims to fuel his undead body!”

Trixie turns her large eyes on him. “Is it … true…?”

I expect Basilton to protest and then explode at me in a string of abuse, yet he is silent. Despite our dim surroundings, when I regard him over my shoulder, the dismay in the wideness of his eyes and the looseness of his jaw is profound. I steel the stirrings of my heart against the sight, for I will not be swayed by this deceptive plea for empathy, nor will I allow Trixie to be hoodwinked further.

I continue informing her in earnest: “If you are as well-acquainted with the Duke as you claim to be, Trixie, then surely you’ve noticed his sickly pallor, exacerbated further by how he avoids sunlight. He covers himself overmuch in even the most oppressive summer days and refrains from outdoor activities at all times of the year. Should he be remiss in this avoidance, his skin turns red and blistered as a result. It must have also not escaped you that he conceals his mouth when he eats or laughs, likely to hide the stains of blood upon his sharp teeth. I am certain I have witnessed them once!”

Basilton’s charade of guiltless hurt shatters with the growl of frustration that tears out of him. He stalks away a few paces, hands tightly clenched and voice ragged as he bellows, “ _God damn you_ , man! Don’t I suffer enough?”

“‘Suffer’!” I baulk, stomping after the villain. “Oh, that’s a laugh! What could you possibly suffer from? You, with your power, and money, and _titles_ —a whole bloody duchy! _You_ , who escaped death! What do _you_ — _”_

My tirade, as it were, is cut short due to one very particular event, followed by several other ones which are smaller though no less befuddling. The main event is the connection of Baz’s fist with my face, which I know from my occasional engagements in fisticuffs would render any man temporarily speechless. This then leads to the smaller events in blurred succession: I stumble back from the force of his violence, trip over a small statue, and land on my back in a rosemary plant, all of this resulting in my cheekbone, my back, the statue, and the pot suffering various states of damage, if the clattering and shattering is anything to go by.

I can do nothing except lie there and listen to the cacophony echoing in my rattled head like an orchestra consisting only of cymbals. Underneath, as though it’s reaching me through swaths of cotton, I hear Trixie screaming and Basilton profusely apologizing to her. ( _“Don’t worry about Snow; please accept this as compensation for your garden.”_ ) I hope I haven’t hit my head to top this all off. None of the pain has quite set in yet. ( _“I sincerely apologize for disrupting your lovely party.”_ ) I fix my eyes on the night sky. Its twinkling has always been a comfort to me. _(“Please stop crying, Miss Teague.”)_ I’ll wait a few minutes before I attempt to move. I don’t believe I could manage it right now. _(“I shall burden you with my presence no longer.”_ ) I’ll wait, until the time is right, and then I’ll get back up again.

Right.

I stare at the stars, my left eye gradually swelling shut, and I wonder how I got here.

Baz never throws the first punch.

**Author's Note:**

> Title translation: _come, let us adore him_


End file.
